


Like Father, Like Son

by broi



Series: The Dreadfort [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brotherly Love, Daddy Issues, Father/Son Incest, Half-Sibling Incest, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Coercion, Mind Games, POV Ramsay Bolton, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Sexual Coercion, Verbal Humiliation, actually Roose is a worse warning, happy Bolton family, lol jk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Roose attempts to teach Ramsay where Domeric left off. Ramsay is a poor student.





	Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my Dreadfort series whereby Ramsay has not been at the Dreadfort long. It's shortly after Domeric's death. Roose attempts to shape his remaining son into the hole that Domeric left behind. Established past Rameric and Roomeric.

His father’s cock is long, straight and swollen red, jutting from his breeches as he sits open-legged in the chair next to the hearth in Ramsay’s chamber. Ramsay’s hands are wrapped around the base, drenched in strings of saliva and pre-come, half-cupping his father’s balls with his thumbs. The slurps and smacks of lips on skin are louder than the fire and Ramsay is _furious,_ furious with the hold his father has on him, furious with the strength of his own fucking erection, and furious with his dead fucking brother and this fucking mess he’s left behind.

A mere five minutes earlier, Roose had entered Ramsay’s room without a word, unlaced himself and, already hard, issued a singular command.

_“Learn.”_

The forkful of stewed meat Ramsay had been anticipating all afternoon had hovered in stopped motion halfway to his mouth.

_“Father?”_

_“You look like a half-wit. Put that down. Kneel.”_ Then, when Ramsay did as instructed, _“Swallow.”_

He’d taken his father’s cock as far back had he’d been able, which wasn’t far. Burning with rage, Ramsay decides what he lacks in basic technique, he’ll make up for in showmanship and blind enthusiasm. 

“Slavering like a whore. Your natural method or a stylistic choice? Both equally disappointing.” When Ramsay stills, does his best to swallow some saliva around the cock pulsing in his throat, his father’s cold fingers snake across the back of his neck, gently prompting him to resume his rhythm. “Your _brother_ sat quietly.” 

He says it so easily, as though it’s an afterthought. Ramsay knows it’s anything but. _An everythought._

And Ramsay thinks about it too. 

How it felt to slide between Domeric’s red pouting lips, watching them tighten around his cock; the sensation of his brother’s flat tongue cushioning first his glans and then the shaft; how his willing, open throat held Ramsay _just there_ without a murmur of complaint or arousal. Ramsay had to grip him by the jaw and shake to get him to gag and dribble. _“Moan like you want it. High-born, entitled little shit. How dare you be silent. I could choke you until you’re dead._ Cry, _big brother. I want you sobbing for my seed. Begging for your release. Begging for your fucking_ life.”

The tears were always of gratitude, Ramsay knew. And _how_ grateful Domeric had been. Finally allowed to snot and wail.

“Look at me, bastard.” 

His father’s eyes are little shards of granite. They literally could not be more opposite to Domeric’s. 

“No noise. Slowly, and regular. And if you look away, the lesson will end.”

Ramsay offers his father as much of a nod as he can manage and resumes a rhythm. _Slowly, and regular._ When Roose pushes his cock to the back of Ramsay’s throat, holding it there for a long moment, his gaze unwavering, Ramsay burns with effort and stares back. Whether Roose enjoys how Ramsay’s eyes water, or the tiniest of snuffles that escape Ramsay’s nose, it’s impossible to tell. But all at once Ramsay can breathe again and the rhythm resumes. 

“Touch yourself.”

It’s only a small whimper that Ramsay makes, but both are equally disappointed by it. _Like father, like son._ Ramsay had been trying to ignore the ache in his own prick, straining against his breeches, that had bloomed and throbbed since the second his father had unlaced his own. How desperate he must look, struggling with his laces for fear of breaking pace on his father’s fucking prick, for fear of breaking gaze with his father’s dead, grey eyes. Absurd, when you stop to really think about it.

Just as Ramsay gets a hand around himself, swollen and wet, he curls his tongue to flick the underside of Roose’s cock. It’s utterly automatic. Immediately, Roose’s thin fingers grip him at his cheekbones so hard Ramsay almost gasps. 

_“No,_ bastard. You are not your brother.”

And Ramsay twists at his cock harder, more urgently, dangerously, hopelessly, as he’ll never feel Domeric curl his tongue like that again, he was so good at it – he was just _good_ \-- and Roose knows it too. _You are not your brother._

His jaw aches and his cheeks throb and his cock is hard, _so hard,_ yet Ramsay knows the second Roose’s fingers release him, he should continue. And continue he does, his tongue as still in his mouth as Roose’s hips are in the chair, as Ramsay slides his lips in a tight o around the length of his father’s cock to prevent even a single slurp, up and down, as his own release pools in his stomach, approaching apace.

Roose’s eye contact never falters.

“You are quick to rush yet slow to learn. Unrefined in all you undertake. Your bad blood disgusts me. But—” He pushes a lock of hair back from Ramsay’s eyes. “Your lips are fuller than your brother’s, and your discontent, poutish demeanour makes a somewhat interesting picture. When the time is right, I would see my seed across your plump lips. Would you like that, bastard?”

Ramsay groans, long and loud, and spills his seed over his hand and across the floor in a wet, miserable splatter. 

Roose pushes Ramsay by the forehead away from his glistening cock, then wipes his hand on Ramsay’s doublet. A bead of sweat blooms on Ramsay’s temple.

“For now, I have better use for my seed than down your base-born throat. My fat, young wife is yet to give me an heir.” 

Ramsay doesn’t break eye contact. He will _not_ break eye contact. He sits back on his heels as his treacherous cock softens, hanging ridiculously from his unlaced breeches as though apologising for itself. 

“Once a trueborn son has been born to me, I expect you to be on your knees awaiting your prize. Disappoint me, bastard, and I will never feed you again.”

And then his father has re-laced and gone, and Ramsay is left staring at the open door he has left behind as his seed dries on the cold stone floor.

**Author's Note:**

> 1000 fucking words exactly, suck my dick. You know who you are!


End file.
